


Touched

by jo2ukes



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, lots of fluff bc i am a weak weak worm, nightmares n cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them can promise anything—but being there for each other, being with each other despite everything is a promise enough. At the end of the day, if the Maker is kind, they’ll return to each other. They’ll patch wounds, exchange jokes, gently kiss each other’s cheeks, lay under stars with their limbs entangled until sleep overtakes them. And then they’ll wake with the hope to repeat it all again the next night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touched

Gentle fingers traced down the skin of his back, tenderly touching the skin as though his wounds were just there on the surface. “Sorry,” he pants, catching his breath and offering a half grin,

“Did I wake you?” Lyren shakes her head, her brows furrowed ever so slightly as she continues to trace patterns down his skin. Her touch soothes him in some inexplicable way. Perhaps because it is just that—a touch. Something he hasn’t really known, even in the most innocent sense of the word. Isolde never comforted him, not that his boyish pride would have ever let her know that he needed a mother’s love. Eamon hardly had the time to notice the boy needed anything but the occasional guidance now and again—not that Alistair could blame him. His days in the Chantry were, surprisingly, filled with more touches than his days at Redcliffe. Unfortunately, none of the contact he received while in the Chantry was the least bit enjoyable. The sisters there hardly had time for him, save the occasional pull of his earlobe to force him to wash dishes in the kitchen, a switch across the knuckles for talking back during training, or the flick on the back of his head to remind him not to make faces at the other boys during service. Not quite the staple of touches a young boy ought to grow up on, but he managed.

He can’t quite imagine her past has been much different in terms of loveless touches. Not that she’s revealed to him, anyway. She’s never one to waste words and he’s only just begun to piece together the puzzle of her past. She had her father, but her father’s hands were always busy with work. She had her cousins, but they were both younger—it was likely that she was the one placing pats on their heads, kisses on their knees, and braids in their hair. Doling out a love that was just as foreign to her as all the world beyond Denerim’s gates. Yet, she’s so full of it. There’s a soft reverence to the way she touches him, as though she knows the exact way to ease his pain and chase away the darkness in the corners of his mind.

“Was it the Archdemon?” she asks, her voice slightly gruff and heavy with sleep, but tender and not more than a whisper.

“Something like that.”

Truth be told, he’s had so many nightmares as of late they all string together. Some days, he’s not even sure he’s awake. But this time, he knew it was a dream— Lyren’s fingers at his back assured him of this. The fact there wasn’t much of an escape from the dream’s fate was what still haunted him, sent cool chills down his back. Alistair had always been somewhat content to live in the present or at least a fantastical future. At Eamon’s, he was a boy and the future held no meaning for him. Life was counted in sunrises and sunsets, and days were filled with whatever dreams his boyish imagination could think of—usually of heroic ventures in distant lands, it didn’t even have to be in Ferelden. At the Chantry, it was merely a matter of making it to the next day. Not that conditions were harsh by any means. There was a roof over his head and, despite his progression in age, his head was still filled with boyish dreams of visiting the world outside. Every day passed in the Chantry was another day he felt close to reaching that goal. He only began to think of a real future when Duncan arrived, took Alistair under his wing, and taught him that life lived in the present wasn’t always wise. Perhaps it was a purpose that made Alistair look to the future. His dreams of seeing the world, being heroic, they were now a reality despite how different he had imagined they would be.

Alistair had always been afraid of losing his family—it was a fear that had been realized time and time again. First in his learning that Eamon was only his uncle. Second in his removal from Eamon’s. His first glimmer of hope and home was in Duncan. Duncan had given Alistair the Grey Wardens—his first family since living in Redcliffe. Only a fool would have ever imagined that family would have lasted for years, and Alistair hoped like a fool—he hoped that it wasn’t really a Blight that they were facing, that somehow he could find happiness amongst the gloom. How could it really be a Blight, after five hundred years of peace?

Inevitably, Ostagar had all but ripped his family from him. And yet he’d found it in the unlikeliest of places—the arms of Tabris. Lyren, a young, fiery elf was all he had left. In so many ways, he was grateful. She was a bit bristly at first and Alistair almost brought himself to question Duncan’s decision in recruiting her. She was his family now, a role she’d happily accepted. They’d started as comrades in arms, taken timid steps towards friendship, and over time, something else entirely had invisibly blossomed between the two of them. Her pain touches his, and her strength helps him to stand when he cannot do it on his own. His greatest fear is now losing her. It is a fear stronger than facing countless hordes of darkspawn, numerous years of a Blight, or even losing himself to the Blight. Without Lyren, he is nothing. And those fears have been plaguing his dreams.

_He is the last Grey Warden and all of Ferelden has their doors closed to him. His companions have all died, or at least he hasn’t the slightest idea of where they’ve gone. He’s screaming for help, pounding on doors to tell families to run before the Blight destroys them, hacking away at darkspawn limb after darkspawn limb, but his actions mean nothing. No one hears him, no one listens, the darkspawn pop up in twos for every one he cuts down. When the Archdemon finally surfaces, Lyren’s blood seems still fresh on its claws. It’s cold eyes look right into his soul, Maker have mercy. If he could have died in her place, he would have. It was his job to protect her and he failed—his failure means the end. And while he would like to say that he has the strength to fight with all his might, somewhere in the back of his mind is a fatalistic screaming. He has failed and death is his only fitting punishment. He failed Duncan, couldn’t do anything to save him—didn’t do anything to save him. He failed to save Lyren, failed to warn and protect Ferelden from the rest of the Blight. The cold Archdemon’s eyes know of his weakness, know that somewhere in the back of his mind he would be all too relieved to shrug off this heavy burden._

“I had one too,” she says, pressing herself closer to his chest. Her skin is warm and slightly flushed, he can feel her heart fluttering. “But you know that’s no excuse.”

“Excuse for what?” he asks, taken aback.

“You can’t use sleep deprivation and bad dreams as an excuse when I hold my lead in kills tomorrow.” She delivers a playful poke to his ribs and he can hear the smile in her voice.

“Shouldn’t you be taunting Sten?” Alistair laughs. “Surely he’s beating you by a few hundred points.”

“Sten doesn’t count,” she snorts, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest.

“Fair enough,” Alistair smiles, sitting up far enough to press a kiss to a scar on her shoulder. A gentle pause hangs in the air.

“What did you really dream about?” she asks, turning to face him. Her brown eyes are calm, patient—there’s no push for an answer, but the truth is pouring from his lips all the same. She has that effect on him.

“You,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t really lying when I said the Archdemon was in it too, but he wasn’t the worst part. Not that you were the worst part either, it’s just that you were—well. You know.” He looks down at the rough sheets, unable to meet her eyes. The word sits in his mouth with a bitter taste, but he can’t bring himself to say it. It’s a curse—saying it aloud, no matter how likely it was that either of them would actually die, would shatter the moment. Separate the dream from reality. For now, he could at least imagine, hold on to that same boyish hope that he once was so fully of, and pretend. He could pretend that, just this once, it really was possible that good could defeat evil. That no matter how unlikely the odds, there was faith and surety that the two of them would come out of this triumphant.

“Alistair,” she breathes, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Her warm fingers chase away the dark clouds in his mind. “I’m here now,” she says, evenly. And that’s enough. Neither of them can promise anything—but being there for each other, being _with_ each other despite everything is a promise enough. At the end of the day, if the Maker is kind, they’ll return to each other. They’ll patch wounds, exchange jokes, gently kiss each other’s cheeks, lay under stars with their limbs entangled until sleep overtakes them. And then they’ll wake with the hope to repeat it all again the next night.

He turns his head and presses a kiss to her palm, hoping his touch brings her the same ray of hope.

“Besides, you’d never be rid of me,” she smirks. “You know me well enough to know I’d fight my way back through the Fade to haunt you.”

“You’re too cute to do much damage as a spirit,” he laughs. “I’d be terrifying!” she protests. As if to prove her point, she throws their sheet over her head and adopting a deeper voice in an attempt to be frightening. “I know you’re scared of me, Theirin. I’ll drag your sorry ass back with me into the Fade if you don’t shape up!”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to her forehead, crying out when she punches him lightly in the arm. He pulls the sheet off her head, her hair a tangled mess, but her eyes lively and her lips upturned in a large grin.

“Bastard,” she says, pressing her forehead to his.

“That’s _royal_ bastard, to you.”

Or, rather, he was the damn _luckiest_ bastard. She wasn’t the damsel- in- distress from his boyhood dreams— he’d never have imagined in all his years that he’d find something infinitely better than what he’d imagined. But he had. He’d found family, and he’d die for family.

**Author's Note:**

> 10 years later I join the fandom and start posting fics :o yes i'm a crying mess  
> [[follow me on tumblr @ jo2ukes.tumblr.com i need more da friends]]


End file.
